A Little Unsteady
by megsamadhi
Summary: Every day, he receives her letters and reads them in confusion, often spending the entire day reading through the small stack that has accumulated. Every night, he falls asleep and forgets everything. Each new letter alarms him more. He can't make out why someone would tell him such intimate details of her life. "Dear Draco, Do you remember me? I once meant everything to you."
1. Chapter 1

As he walked down the corridor, a slender hand reached out and took his. _Hermione_.

He was glad she had found him. He'd be leaving soon – most of them would. If they were successful in overtaking this headquarters, the Dark Lord's forces would be thrown into confusion and chaos. If they were successful, it would be enough to turn the tide. They might not come back this time; certainly not all of them would. It was a larger attack than the duels and skirmishes they were used to, but no one talked about that. He was glad she had found him to say goodbye.

Despite everything they had been through together, he still hadn't found the nerve to tell her what she meant to him. She had a fucking boyfriend. He didn't believe she was in love with Weasley, so he had waited.

And waited.

Two years had passed him by, watching Hermione's cold romance unfold. He waited for Weasley to lose her respect. He waited for people's expectations of their relationship to grow stale. He waited for her to turn from Weasley and see him standing there in front of her. But routines are important in a time of war, and everyone carefully maintained the status quo.

So he waited.

She always came to tell him goodbye. Always took his hand, squeezed it gently and said: "Be safe." Another routine. Another goodbye. Another battle. Another homecoming, watching Weasley take her triumphantly into his arms.

Anytime someone left the apparation point, it was with the understanding that they might not come back. This time, most of them _knew_ they wouldn't. This single assault was too important to lose. Harry-Saint-Potter himself had given a heart-rending speech to the fighters about why this one was worth dying for. Maybe that's what made him feel different. Potter had broken the routine with that speech. When routines were broken, anything was possible.

He looked down at Hermione's hand gently squeezing his own, and he knew he had to break the routine. Maybe then, anything would be possible.

...

Three years ago, the Dark Lord's forces had seized control of the Ministry. It was meant to be a silent take over. A silent occupation. But the Order was waiting for them, and made a loud, bloody mess of it all. It wasn't enough to stop them. Fear of the Dark Lord had driven the Death Eaters, and they had carved through the resistance in the end. But winning hadn't been the objective; secrecy had. They had lost their greatest weapon. Alone and suspicious, people would have been weak. Now, those who opposed them rose up, united, to fight.

...

Draco Malfoy had been an informant a mere 12 days when he approached Harry with the plans of the Ministry overthrow. Harry trusted his motives and information completely. Malfoy's father had died at the hands of Voldemort only a month before. Lucius' crime had been trying to smuggle his family out of the country. When they were found out, his wife and son were forced to watch his execution. That's when Malfoy had approached them with an offer. He would provide them with information until it seemed like his position was compromised. In return, he and his mother were to receive full amnesty and protection when they defected.

It had turned out to be the most important deal Harry had ever made. The information Malfoy had given them about the Ministry overthrow had changed the entire nature of the war. It had given them a clear enemy. That was the official start of the war, and the official birth of the Wizarding Rebellion. A Slytherin, a pureblood, and a Death Eater – Malfoy had given them the upper hand.

When they didn't hear from Malfoy in the following week, they delighted in their good luck. If his position was uncompromised, they would still have access to the movements of Voldemort's forces. When they didn't hear from Malfoy for more than a month, they had no choice but to mark him as a casualty of war. A memorial was held, and his bravery and sacrifice were formally commended. He arrived a week later, carrying the limp form of his mother. In the end, it hadn't mattered to Voldemort who had given the information. He had tortured anyone who had the slightest connection with Potter, be it only a childhood grudge from Hogwarts days. Malfoy had been chained and made to watch Narcissa's torture. It had served to punish him more than any physical pain could have. No one knew how he had escaped with her, but by the time he reached them it was too late. She died on a Saturday.

Everyone handles death differently. Some people mourn. Some break. Some persist in denial, avoiding the reality of their loss. Draco Malfoy fought. He had found Harry within days of his mother's death and demanded to join the outgoing groups battling Voldemort's forces. Harry still didn't like Malfoy, but he understood him. He had granted his request at once.

No one else in the groups trusted him. School-age grudges and bad feelings abounded, but Malfoy ignored them. He fought with an intensity and a single-mindedness that bordered on madness. He fought as though he didn't mean to live. Whatever the other rebels had expected, they weren't prepared for the vengeful, driven man fighting beside them. A few months' time saw his courage respected, his skill relied upon, and his advice sought by others. Malfoy ignored them.

Harry hadn't thought he'd have to rein in Malfoy's new obsession, but everyone could see that he was killing himself. By steps, by stages – fight upon fight – duel after duel. He meant to die. And Harry couldn't watch it happen.

"I'm cutting you down to one outbound assignment a week."

Malfoy was furious. Harry didn't care.

"That's the same rate that every other person here deploys," Harry said, with irritation.

"I don't give a damn what the others do," he said, deathly quiet.

"If you're desperate, you can do one more each week with the acquisition teams."

"You'd rather have me with the scavengers than the fighters?" he sneered.

"Those are your options, Malfoy. I'm not punishing you. I'm trying to give you a life outside of revenge."

"What. Fucking. Life? What do you expect me to do?"

"What you do with your time is up to you."

No. It hadn't gone well. Malfoy had continued to make his way to the apparation point daily, and to raise hell when his apparation with various groups was forbidden. It was only a matter of time until things went too far. Three weeks after Harry had reduced his involvement, Malfoy splinched himself badly. He had tried to apparate with a fighter group while being wrestled away by two supervising wizards. After that, Harry had him confined to a separate part of the headquarters.

...

She always came. Always took his hand, squeezed it gently and said: "Be safe," but gods, she wished she had the courage to say more. Especially now. Especially this time.

The Death Eaters wore cloaks and masks. Their side didn't. She knew from the talk she had heard that they wanted Draco badly… and they didn't want him dead. She knew what they were capable of doing to him, and every fiber of her being was screaming for him to stay here, safe.

When his free hand reached up, cupping her face, she trembled in anticipation. She could feel each fingertip wreaking havoc, caressing the sensitive flesh just behind her jaw, brushing against her ear lobe, toying with the soft strands of hair that had come loose throughout the day. She watched his gaze travel down to her lips, and drew in a shaky breath. She shouldn't want this, but Draco's fingertips tracing against her, the steady pressure of her hand in his, was more intimate, somehow, than anything Ron had ever made her feel. She wanted to feel Draco's hands on her, knowing that he wanted to touch her. No more accidental brushes, no more casual goodbyes. She wanted him to want her. She wanted to feel his lips claim hers as though she belonged to him. For all their time together, Ron still couldn't do that. Ron's love was clumsy and awkward, and had always made her feel that there must be something more.

Six inches still between them and already she knew that this was something more.

 _..._

 _Dear Draco,_

 _They say I can't keep coming every day. They say I'm killing myself the worst way I can. Maybe they're right. They're wrong about everything else, but this has been killing me for such a long time now. I think a part of me wants to let it happen - to let it take me. But, gods, then I think, 'what if?' What if someday you're better? What if someday, when I walk through that door, you know me again? And so I can't. I can't keep coming every day. I can't keep introducing myself as though we're strangers. I can't keep searching your eyes for that spark of recognition. I can't keep hoping that maybe this will be the day you're whole again._

 _It's killing me._

...

Hermione isn't sure what she thought her life would be… but not this. Never this.

It had taken everyone she knew to confront her with her meager existence. She'd had to admit that she wasn't living… not really. But what could they expect from her? How could she let go of _this_ without letting go of _him_?

It wasn't fair. Of course it wasn't.

They'd survived the entire war. They'd even had that first sweet taste of happiness in the months that had followed. They should have known better than to think it would last. All it had taken was a single Death Eater lurking in the shadows, and her life had turned into _this_. Waiting for him to remember her. Waiting for him to remember himself.

He woke every morning without even knowing his own name. She could spend hours every day explaining his life to him, begging him to come back to her… the worst days were the ones he seemed to understand. It was heartbreaking. It was exhausting.

Some days, she made it through with work. Draco's knowledge of the Ministry's structure and bureaucracy had made the creation of her department possible. He still thought she was mad for wanting equal protection for house elves and other minor magical creatures, but he had believed in the passion she felt for it.

Some days, she made it through with research. She suspected she knew more, by now, than many of the healers working with Draco on a daily basis. She had attacked his condition from every angle, studying curses, the human brain, ancient magic, spell damage, and more dark magic than she had ever wanted to know about. Despite all of the information, she was still powerless to help him.

Some days, she made it through with alcohol.

She tried taking days off from visiting him, but the guilt exhausted her nearly as much as the heartbreak of seeing him. She'd sit at home, deafened by the silence there. They had shared this place. She could look around the apartment and watch their happiest moments play through – translucent, intangible, and terribly haunting – reminding her of all she had lost.

Yes. Some days she made it through with alcohol.

...

Every day, he receives her letters and reads them in confusion, often spending the entire day reading through the small stack that has accumulated. Every night, he falls asleep and forgets everything. Each new letter alarms him more. He can't make out why someone would tell him such intimate details of her life. Many of them read like diary entries. And isn't that just the thing? Why can he remember what a diary is and not a single thing about himself? About her?

 _Dear Draco,_

 _It's been four days since I've been to see you._ _Will you forgive me when I tell you it hurts less to stay away?_

It confuses him as much as the others. Again, he goes through the stack of letters, piecing together enough to know he should be upset by this. He should be hurt. He should _remember_. But he can't, and the next day's letter is just as great a shock as the day before.

...

It's been almost a year. Eleven fucking months.

The drinking has become more important, somehow, than almost anything else. Not the drinking, _the feeling_. The blissful detachment that lets her push it all away. Now when she takes days off from visiting Draco, they aren't a burden; they're a relief.

She still writes to him every day she skips her visit. The guilt demands that much of her. Sometimes it's just a simple note to say, ' _I'm still here. I'm still thinking of you._ ' Sometimes it's rolls of parchment telling him about every part of her day – every struggle – every thought in her head. Sometimes it's just a single line…

 _Do you remember me? I once meant everything to you._


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Draco,_

 _It's been raining for days. You won't remember, but a cat sneaks into the building whenever it rains, and he always ends up in our apartment. You used to laugh at me when he didn't show up on rainy days and I'd go looking. I wonder sometimes about trying to adopt him, but I imagine at the first hint of sunlight, he'll be on his way. Perhaps he has two families. One that loves him in the sunshine and one that loves him through the rain. Or perhaps he knows that rainy days are harder._

 _._ _.._

After splinching himself, Potter'd had him confined to a separate part of the headquarters. It was the fucking revenge of the nerds here. He'd only ever passed through before, and days on end here convinced him he'd kept walking with good reason. On any given week the 'acquisitions' teams made as many trips out as the fighters, but their goals were much different. The fighters went out for blood. The scavengers (as he referred to them) went out for food, supplies, books, and anything else they came across in the wreckage this war had left behind. They also kept up communications with other groups of rebels. It was much too far away from the vengeance he needed. Potter would never understand what he'd taken from him. His parents had died too long ago. He hadn't had to watch his father's body crumple at the Dark Lord's feet… hadn't been made to listen day after day to his mother's tortured screams. Vengeance was more than just an obsession for Draco. It had been the only thing keeping him sane.

The only one of the scavengers who didn't pity his confinement was Granger. She tried again and again to learn more about the Death Eaters. He supposed he should feel grateful that someone still found him useful. What he felt was very far from gratitude. He wanted to scream at her; to hurt her. He wanted to destroy every book and every piece of furniture he could lay hands on. He wanted to destroy every bit of progress she thought she was making. He wanted to kill everyone, regardless of which side they were on. He wanted to die, burning with his hatred and rage.

He'd given into it for weeks, screaming at her, giving release to all that was trapped. She'd let him do it. Every day, she had come and waited as he'd hurled furniture at the walls and raged uncontrollably.

He hadn't stopped until he realized Granger hadn't told anyone. He suspected she'd even sound-blocked the room to keep them from hearing. No one knew how unstable he was because she hadn't let them see. It caught him so off guard that he'd listened to what Granger had to say the next day. And the next.

On the worst days, when the compulsion to hurt was too great, he'd still tell Granger to fuck off. And she would.

On the other days, their grudging collaboration moved forward, inch by inch, week by week, month after month until they'd formed the plan that had changed everything.

...

Wasn't it just like Malfoy to make himself too important to cast aside? It irritated Harry. It made him feel undermined. But already, Malfoy's new plan was more effective than anything they'd ever tried. They still fought, but now the purpose of fighting wasn't to injure or kill – it was getting close enough to _take_. Because Malfoy knew that becoming a Death Eater was a family rite, a tradition passed on from one generation to the next. That more often than not, an entire battalion was made up of only three or four families ready to fight to the death, if only to preserve the honor of their names. He also knew that they weren't remotely prepared for capture. It was something too shameful to bother speaking of or training for. And so they formed teams, each member with a specific task: defending, disarming, petrifying, apparating. Malfoy was the only one of them who knew all the family connections among the pure bloods. He made the calls on who would be taken.

Harry had grimaced at the irony of taking orders from him. But it had _worked._ The Death Eaters were spooked. They were constantly looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next assault. When it came, they fought poorly, scattering or gathering families together, some even hiding. In an effort to protect their identities, they had begun wearing the cloak and mask at all times, battle or not, making it impossible to distinguish between them.

Damn Malfoy for finding a way back onto the battlefield. But what other option was there? He had fought with these people for years, and been around them long before that. He _knew_ them, masked or not. He could tell by the grip of a wand and the length of a stride which was the one he wanted.

And so, after seven months of confinement, Draco Malfoy rejoined the groups of outgoing fighters.

...

Six inches apart, and already this was more than he'd felt for anyone. He looked into her eyes and cursed himself for the time he'd spent waiting. Two years had passed him by, watching Weasley push himself on her. Two fucking years spent by her side, planning, strategizing, commiserating, celebrating. Two years of falling so slowly that he was in way too fucking deep by the time he'd seen it.

He knew he had to break the routine. When routines were broken, anything was possible.

So he kissed her.

...

She and Malfoy had been working together for months, and she was still no closer to understanding him. She couldn't get a handle on the man she'd seen tear people apart. The man who gave over to his darkness in every battle. That was before the ambush. The acquisitions teams had never been targets before, but the Death Eaters were becoming desperate. They were attacked without warning. After years of luck and near misses, she'd been wounded and disarmed. She could see it in those leering eyes facing her; she could feel it as she slipped into unconsciousness: this was how she died.

The next conscious memory she had was of Malfoy. His arms were around her. They were sprawled awkwardly outside of their own headquarters, far away from the attack. He was unconscious. His blood was everywhere.

It'd taken him four weeks to recover from his injuries, and she hadn't even been able to say a proper thank you without him bristling. Whatever his objections, he couldn't manage to stop her visiting him.

"Why?" he'd asked flatly when she'd come around, yet again.

"Must we really fall back into these roles after all this time, Malfoy?" she asked wearily.

"These have always been our roles, Granger. Why are you suddenly so keen on visiting?"

"We've spent nearly every part of the past five months together, Malfoy. You're my friend. You were even before you saved my life. Of course I'd want to visit you."

He looked away, his face closed, his eyes carefully expressionless. But he hadn't objected to her visits after that.

 _..._

 _Dear Draco,_

 _I dreamt of you last night. Do you still dream? Have I ever lingered for just a moment after you wake?_

 _The ghost of your touch is still there before the dreams melt away, and I hold onto those moments desperately, wanting them to be real. I have to believe that before the slate is wiped clean each day, we share those moments. They are the only place you still love me – the only place we can hold onto each other – the only moments each day that you are still mine._

This letter unsettles him more than any of the others he's read so far today. Because he _had_ dreamt. Damn it all if he could grasp anything from it, but he had woken up _knowing_ that it was important to remember, knowing that if he could just hold onto the blurry edges and drag them into consciousness, everything would be alright. Instead, he'd woken with a sense of dread. He'd woken up knowing, very clearly, that everything was _not_ alright. He couldn't understand where he was, or why. He had felt his panic rising as he took in his surroundings, his clothing, his appearance in the small, square mirror over the sink next to the bed.

The 'not right-ness' only grew more heavy as someone entered the room.

"Good morning, my name is Healer Smythe."

He had felt compelled to respond, but couldn't for the life of him, think of his fucking name. And it had hit him, then, that he knew some things, but not others. He knew that people should have names, but he didn't. He knew what a prisoner was, but he didn't think that word was quite right for this. Gods, his head ached from trying to gather so many thoughts into a single, coherent idea. It was like trying to make his body move only to find that it was scattered, piece by piece, across the room.

And this, apparently, was repeated. Every day, he would continue to wake up like this. It was enough to make him consider ending the cycle. Death was as close to peace as he was ever likely to get now. But there were the letters. He asked about them, and the healer had sat down, looking as though he'd told him a hundred times before. He listened as the healer described her, and described their supposed connection.

"Does she ever come to see me?"

"She used to."

"Has she given up hope, then?"

"The letters come almost every day. Perhaps she still has hope."

"Do you?"

The healer patted him patronizingly and smiled as he stood to leave.

"I'm afraid I have other patients to check in on, Mr. Malfoy, but if you need anything, press the button next to the door. One of the assistants should be in with your breakfast shortly. Have a pleasant day."

"Healer Smythe," he said quietly, and the man paused. "How many times have you answered these same questions from me?"

"Almost every day since you arrived, Mr. Malfoy."

"And how many days is that?"

Looking down at the folder in his hands, he shuffled a few papers.

"Three hundred and eighty-seven," he said before turning back to the door and closing it softly behind him.

...

After that first attack on the acquisitions teams, they knew no peace. They were as likely to be attacked as the fighters. Draco always stayed close to her, shielding her however he could, but she almost wished he wouldn't. It was harrowing to watch him fight. The vengeance that had nearly killed him when he'd joined the rebellion still possessed him, body and soul. It left behind nothing of the man she'd spent months with, strategizing and collaborating.

"Do you think it will ever be gone? The darkness? The compulsion?" she'd asked later.

His expression was unreadable.

"It's all that keeps me going."

"What if something else kept you going?"

It was a stupid question – far too personal – and she looked away, giving him permission to leave it unanswered.

But the question still hung between them days later. Before he left next, she had found him. She told him goodbye. She told him to be safe. Unable to think of anything else, she took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. She didn't know what it would do – what difference it would make – but perhaps she thought the motivation to fight could shift, inch by inch, away from the darkness.

...

 _Dear Draco,_

 _Every day is a battle, and every day I'm losing. I keep thinking about the way you used to fight. I never understood how you could let it consume you. I wish I had known then what you felt. I feel it now too. I want everyone around me to hurt. I want everyone to lose the ones they love because I can't bear their contentment._

 _I never thought I'd understand the sort of darkness that could make you wish for death. The only way to keep it at bay now is to drown it in a bottle. How ashamed I would make you. How repulsed you would be by me now._

 _..._

"She's killing herself, slowly but surely, and there's not a damned thing I can do to stop it."

Harry was slumped in defeat.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Ron asked.

"What could you have done? You haven't even talked to her since-"

"I bloody well could have tried, Harry. You don't just keep something like that from me."

"You know now. What difference does it make?"

The two glared at each other before Harry slumped down again.

"I'll have to obliviate her soon. It's been coming to it for a while now."

"She'd never forgive you."

"She'd never know."

"I won't let you."

Harry looked tired and annoyed.

"Why on Earth are her memories of Malfoy so important to you?"

How could Ron explain to him the importance of keeping her memories? The importance of her choice? It was awful the way everything had happened, but he'd be a fool not to think of this as an opportunity. If fate had allowed him this chance, he wanted to _win_ her. And if he won, he wanted it to be in spite of the memories of Malfoy... in spite of the memories of himself. His pride demanded that she set Malfoy aside by choice, not by magic.

"She'd never want to lose those memories, no matter what they cost her. I'll find another way."

...

Draco heard raised voices when he'd passed her room and knew the other was Weasley's. They did that a lot. He wasn't surprised to find her alone in the common area that night. He'd walked in and took the shabby little arm chair next to hers.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

He shrugged, his eyes never leaving the glowing fire in front of them.

"If you're here to make me feel better, it's not working. Leave."

He stayed silent.

"I mean it, Malfoy. You can't do anything to make this better."

He took a slow breath, meeting her eyes at last.

"I know," he said quietly.

They woke the next morning still in their chairs, muscles cramped and stiff. Neither spoke, but before she left the room, he could swear she looked back over her shoulder at him with a soft smile.

...

She was already well into her evening ritual when she heard the knock on her door. She buried her head in her arms, willing whoever it was to believe she wasn't at home. When the knock came a second time and then a third, she groaned, rising unsteadily to answer. _Gods, please don't be Harry again,_ she thought. _I can't stand it if it's Harry again._

It wasn't Harry.

"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.

The last time they'd spoken was the defeat of Voldemort. He'd told her: _You don't need him anymore – the war is over. We can be together now._ After all that had happened, he still had the nerve to imply she was a whore. As though she'd go back to him once Draco had outlived his usefulness. She looked at him now with disgust.

He didn't meet her eyes. He looked ashamed standing there with his hands in his pockets, staring at her feet.

"I have no right to ask your forgiveness-"

"You're right. You haven't," she said, slamming the door shut between them.


	3. Chapter 3

"I have no right to ask your forgiveness-"

It was the fourth night of this. She'd come to dread his persistence more than Harry's. The past two nights had gone the way of the first, but she knew eventually, she'd have to hear him out. He paused, stunned to find the door still ajar, and for the first time in almost two years, he looked into her eyes.

"It's killing me – the way you hate me. I can't take back what I've done. I know I never should have asked you to come back to me the way I did. Especially after-"

He shrugged uncomfortably, looking down again. "War made a bloody mess of me, Hermione. I… I'm just sorry, that's all."

She looked at him sadly. He looked defeated. Hollow. It made her ashamed to think that her leaving had caused it. She knew what it was to carry such heavy things, and she was the only one who could relieve him of that burden now.

"I forgive you," she said barely above a whisper before closing the door softly between them.

...

It was a costly victory for the Rebellion. Eleven people had died driving Voldemort from his stronghold. Out of 26 fighters, eleven had not returned. It was a somber reunion that followed. They raised their glasses to the fallen and drank in silence.

They drank champagne meant for a celebration because after years of battle, it was done. The war might go on for months still, but now they were chasing the forlorn remnants of Voldemort's elite. Word would get out. Soon the mere hangers-on would turn their backs on the once powerful necromancer. The power shift had already begun, and it was only a matter of time before they defeated him completely.

It was finally done.

...

Ron never even noticed that Hermione hadn't welcomed him home. He'd come close to death too many times that night. His adrenaline still coursed through him, keeping him off-balance, and he fought to keep his hands steady as people swarmed around them. As often as he'd gone out with the fighters, he had never come that close before. The curses hadn't stopped from the moment they'd arrived, and over and over again, they'd missed him by so little. Thank the gods for his instinct… it was all that had kept him alive. Even then, perhaps it was only luck. He felt himself tremble involuntarily and knew he needed to sit down to keep it from being obvious. He hadn't had time to think for the past two-and-a-half hours. Now, as the images came flooding back, he wished he could block them out. As often as he'd gone out with the fighters, he had never dueled to kill before. How many had died tonight at his hands? Blood had dried onto his pants and shoes. The trembling grew worse.

He couldn't understand a word of the speech Harry was giving. He sat in haunted silence as they raised their glasses, wondering if a soul that had caused such death could ever be made whole again. He was still trembling too hard to notice when Harry refilled their glasses. He simply kept drinking until the raw edges of what he'd seen and done began to blur. At some point, he'd begun talking. He never thought he'd try to tell those horrors to anyone, but somehow, he couldn't stop once she'd asked. She was soothing him, her touch diminished by the alcohol. He'd pulled her closer, wanting to feel her more deeply. He was tired. So tired, but he needed her first. He needed her to pull the darkness back. He needed her to hold onto the man struggling to be free of the murderer. The bed was unfamiliar. The room was unfamiliar. Her voice was unfamiliar. Her lips weren't Hermione's. He sobbed as he thrust into her, holding on as though she could save his wrecked humanity.

...

 _Dear Draco,_

 _I forgave Ron today._

 _I still don't know what possessed me to walk into her room that night. I knew when I saw them go in together… but a part of me needed to see it. I thought it would give me closure, but to this day, it still haunts me. He was so broken. Frail, and broken, and holding onto her so desperately._

 _Poor man. His soul was shredded, and I took what was left and crushed it._

...

She had kissed another man. Ron had slept with another woman. These weren't things that happened to two people deeply in love.

Ron hadn't fought with her. He hadn't fought _for_ her. He had just stared at her with blank eyes and agreed it was for the best. Of all the scenarios that had played out in her mind, none of them were this. In her mind, Ron had yelled and raged against her for that kiss with Malfoy while she berated him as a hypocrite. In her mind, she had been eloquent and forthright, counteracting Ron's inevitable biting remarks. In her mind, she had walked into Malfoy's waiting arms in quiet triumph, full of the justification that she was in the right. But nothing about this was right. She had kissed another man. She had left Ron alone when he'd needed her. And then she had completed his brokenness. His infidelity seemed like such a small thing now in the face of it all.

...

"Please go away, Malfoy."

"No." His voice was so soft, almost an apology.

"There's nothing you can do to make this better. Just leave."

He sat beside her on the floor, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows on them. He stared straight ahead.

"Please," she breathed, tears spilling over her lashes. "You can't make this okay."

Their eyes met and she saw the sadness there.

"I know," he said scarcely above a whisper.

...

Ron had been coming for weeks now. In a cruel, twisted way, it was a relief to write to Draco now. She could write every inch of parchment without guilt – without pause – knowing he would never write back. Little by little, she was letting Ron see the darkness that had enveloped her. He didn't respond the way Harry had, with interventions and pleas and other such rubbish. He had shared his demons too. He had shared a bottle of whatever she was pouring and let her feel that she was not the only one dealing poorly with 'after.' He had wondered aloud the same things she had wanted to know for so long now.

"How can they think they're helping? They parade their lives in front of you and try to convince you that if you could only live the way they do, you'd be happy. You want the truth? We're the ones dealing with reality. When it finally hits them and they have to deal with everything they used to be, I'll be too bloody well-adjusted to give a shit about them anymore."

She was surprised to find him so bitter – to find that she was not alone in her pain. It was refreshing.

It had happened too gradually to draw her attention. He'd done it so well, pouring a little less often each visit; filling the once-blank space with conversation instead of whatever was in the bottle. Then it happened. She'd told him goodnight and closed the door before she realized she wasn't drunk. Not even close.

She panicked.

...

 _Dear Draco,_

 _Ron's trying to pull me out of my self-destruction, and gods help me, I might let him. It's hard accepting this sort of help from anyone but you. When it was you, it didn't matter what came next. Let anything come._

 _But what comes next with him?_

 _He loves me, Draco. And I have no idea what to do with it._

...

He knows he needs to give her time after the break up, and he intends to… until the acquisitions team is ambushed by more than twice their number. Something primal stirs inside of him as he fights with everything he has to keep her safe, and he can't push it away – not this time. They haven't been back at headquarters more than three minutes before he grabs her hand and heads for her room. The moment the door closes behind them, his arms are locked around her and he's kissing her hard, his fingers gripping her hips. And the miraculous thing is she responds. _Gods_ , does she respond, one leg curling around his hip as her hand clutches his shirt. She moans into his mouth as he palms her ass and he can't help pulling her against his hardening length. Her hands are on him, tracing the solid lines of his chest before slipping beneath his shirt, urging it over his head. His hands fumble with her jeans, pushing them down, and her breath stutters as he licks and nips a trail down to her collarbone. When she steps back to pull off her shirt, he's nearly undone. Because he's imagined this. He's woken up several nights with his hand wrapped around his cock, dreaming about this. But never in any corner of his imagination had she responded to him like _this_.

She smiles shyly at him as he stares, completely helpless, and all he can do is take her face in his hands and press his forehead against hers.

"I want this," he says, barely above a whisper, because he needs her to know this isn't just sex. It isn't just a coping mechanism. It isn't just tonight for him. "I want us."

She pulls him close, her lips lingering against his before their eyes meet.

"I want us, too."

...

"So how's work?"

It was a feeble attempt at sparking a conversation, but she appreciated that it was the first question in a long while from Harry that hadn't involved Draco or alcohol.

"Wonderful," she said, surprised to really mean it. "I'm working on a bit of legislation right now with the Hogwarts elves. They were so against wages that I had to create a council to see what equal protection under the law meant to _them._ It's surprising, really, the things they've brought to the table – things I never would have addressed."

When she looked back up at him from her mug of tea, she saw him beaming at her with misty eyes.

"What's gotten into you?" she laughed.

"Sorry, it's just-"

"Just…?"

"It's great to see you like this again. I'm really proud of you."

She looked away, once again surprised by her emotions. Instead of the irritation his pride would have caused three months ago, she found that she was proud of herself too.

...

 _Dear Draco,_

 _I've had to start thinking of what a life without you means. It's terrible. It's empty. But perhaps it's not completely hopeless._

 _I wanted it all with you. I don't know why I ever used to be afraid to tell you that. I wanted some beautiful, cozy little place where we could have a family. I don't know if I'll ever want that with anyone else. But maybe I could be content with someone who wants that with me._

 _Draco, he wants that with me. I can see it in the way he looks at me every time we pass a cottage with children playing in the yard. I can see it in the way his eyes linger on my lips, hoping I'll kiss him. I can see what he wants us to be. I could find a sort happiness in that life, I think. It could be enough for him. Could it be enough for me?_

...

The last letter is what causes him to call for Healer Smythe.

"There has to be something you haven't tried. There at least has to be some way to keep me from resetting every day. If I could even hold onto the memories from _now_ …"

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm afraid-"

"What about something experimental? Something theoretical? It's not like my condition can get any worse-"

"I suspect Ms. Granger has already tried any number of-"

"But what about _you_?"

"I'm afraid that-"

"He's losing her," he says indicating the letter. "Draco Malfoy is losing this life – this whole future – and all I can do is read along as it happens?"

Healer Smythe takes a weary breath. "Perhaps it would be better to remove the letters from your room."

Draco looks at him, stricken.

"You wouldn't."

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Don't you _dare_. I call you for a solution and all you come up with is taking more of me away? I don't accept that."

"Well then, if you wish to reach out to her, perhaps you could write a letter of your own."

Draco scoffs.

"And say what? _Dear Hermione, don't move on because I'm feeling indignant about it today_?"

"Mr. Malfoy, you have asked me for solutions to an impossible situation. There's really nothing more I can do here."

He stands to leave, but turns back at the door, looking almost human for the first time since coming in.

"I'm sorry you're losing her."

...

Potter was right. The tide had finally turned. So many Death Eaters had turned their backs on Voldemort in the past few months that the rebels had begun returning prisoners to their families. They'd be ready to re-take the Ministry any day now. Instead of feeling hope, Draco felt dread. What place was there for someone like him once all this was over? What was he expected to do? He'd never imagined himself as anything other than a Death Eater – a faithful servant of Voldemort. It was all he'd been raised to become.

"What nonsense," Hermione scoffed, her fingers tracing over the small scars that littered his body. He looked down at her mass of curls strewn across his chest and shook his head. This woman. This beautiful, infuriating woman who had seen the darkest parts of him had the nerve to scold him for believing darkness was all he was capable of.

"Someday you'll look at me and realize I'm just a Death Eater, Hermione. It's all I've ever been."

"You're right," she said, meeting his eyes. "You're just a Death Eater."

He lay beneath her, tense, waiting for her judgment.

"And I'm just a mudblood. If you insist on keeping these labels, I might as well go by mine."

He began to protest when her fingers brushed across his lips, silencing him.

"Draco, you changed the war, you've saved more lives than-"

"All I've ever done is exploit information for my own gain."

"Fine," she said, "If that's all you'll count yourself capable of, then see it for the strength it is. How much do you know about pureblood families? About the loopholes in our laws? About the Ministry bureaucracy your family managed to skirt for years? How much good could you do in our world with the knowledge you have to exploit?"

She was right, of course. She was always right.

...

"Draco?"

It's been ages since she's been to visit, but Healer Smythe had owled her yesterday to say that her letters were distressing him.

"Yes?" He looks up at her from the stack of letters he's shuffling through. She sucks in a sharp breath.

"You… you remember your name?"

"No," he says flatly. "That's who the letters are to, so I suppose I'm him."

"Do you read them _all_? Every day?"

"I don't know," he says, truly bewildered. "I've read them all _today_ , and they seem a bit worn, so I suppose I must."

There's not even a small flicker of anything _Draco_ in him. She had told herself to be prepared for it, but the pain and grief are still overwhelming.

"Healer Smythe said the letters were upsetting you. That perhaps it would be better if you didn't receive them anymore."

"Did he? He didn't tell me that. Are you another Healer then?"

She swallows the ache in her chest, fighting to keep the tears from falling.

"Do you think you'd rather not get them anymore?"

She thinks she sees the flicker of understanding in his eyes, that she's the one who keeps sending them. He stands and walks toward her before stopping. She watches him take a deep breath as he looks at her sadly.

"I wish I remembered her," he says simply. "She loved me. I think I was in love with her. She's funny and she's smart. She's stronger than she should ever have to be."

He looks up at her. His grey eyes full of regret as he takes another step toward her.

"She's kind. Loyal. She cares deeply."

He can't seem to stop himself from taking that last step toward her and cupping her cheek gently.

"She's beautiful," he says, barely above a whisper.

Hermione's hand flies up to stifle the sob that she can't help any more than her tears.

"The life she keeps writing about – it makes me angry that someone took it away."

"Draco," she whimpers, covering her face with her hands and weeping freely. It's more than he can stand, and he takes her into his arms, cradling her there.

"I don't remember you, Hermione," he says barely above a whisper. "All I have of you are your letters. Hundreds of letters that make me feel like we could have built a life together. But I know it's not enough. I know you've come to say goodbye."

She can't help it. She kisses him. It still isn't the kiss she remembers, but she lingers, letting it deepen, letting herself put everything into it. She lets herself get lost in this beautiful stranger, if only for a moment, one last time.

...

When she showed up, Ron should have known that something was off, but he didn't think he could be blamed for giving into something he'd wanted for so long now. Ever since she'd forgiven him, he'd been letting his hope build, and here she was, in his arms, kissing him like she meant to do more.

He should stop her. He should ask what brought this on. Especially if it had anything to do with Malfoy. Fuck. It was probably to do with Malfoy, wasn't it? But how the bloody hell was he supposed to think when her hands were sliding beneath his shirt? How was he supposed to realize she wouldn't look at him? She kept her eyes closed when his hands slid over the curves of her breasts. She looked away when he'd pushed the waist of her jeans down past her hips. A part of him knew this wasn't what he wanted – knew it wasn't how he wanted it to happen. The other part thought that this might be the only way he'd ever have her, and gods, he'd take her however he could have her.

They'd only made it as far as the couch before he collapsed on top of her, thrusting quickly. He'd buried his face in her neck to keep from seeing the way she stared past him. When he felt her tears against his cheek, he'd squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to finish.

There was no point in talking after. She'd pulled on her clothes and left before he could think of anything to say.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Draco,_

 _Writing to you has become such a part of me. Such a part of my day. I don't know how to let it go._

 _I slept with Ron yesterday. Gods what a brutal thing to tell you. I didn't plan to. But then you held me in your arms. You kissed me. And it wasn't you. If it had been you, your lips could have claimed me without a single word. You could have erased every doubt with a single touch._

 _But you didn't. You can't. Not ever again._

 _I knew that when he touched me, it would be for me. I knew that when he kissed me, he would remember how and where. But it wasn't a relief. It was misery – on his couch, not even looking at each other, with tears running into my hair, both of us just desperate to have it over with. I realized then that I could never be with Ron again – I could never try to have a life with him. Because he isn't you._

 _I hate myself a little for still waiting for you. I think a part of me will always be waiting. But I know it's time to move on. It's time for us to be over. I may never get to a place where I don't love you anymore, but–_

His head explodes in bright spasms of pain and light. For a split-second, he thinks he might be dying. In the next moment, he's absolutely sure of it. Because he remembers. He remembers everything, starting with the one who attacked him.

" _The curse will break once she tells you she doesn't love you anymore. You'll remember, and it will be too late."_

Her face swims into view. Bridget Creighton. She'd been the target in one of the battles toward the end of the war, but the spells were flying so thick that night, that he'd taken her husband instead. It would have worked out the same as any other capture if two rogue spells hadn't hit him as they'd apparated away. The healers back at headquarters had tried to help him, but he was past it. He'd kept trying to hurt himself and everyone else who got near him. He was mad – spell-damaged beyond recovery. Hermione had finally been the one to obliviate him.

A curse to make him lose his memory is a sick kind of poetic justice, he supposes. But what had he forgotten? And for how long?

" _Once she tells you she doesn't love you anymore,"_ her voice echoes, causing him to look down in confusion at the parchment in his hands. It's from Hermione. He looks at the date and startles violently.

" _You'll remember, and it will be too late."_

 _..._

He'd kissed her that morning, the same as every morning. He always left the apartment earlier than her and more often than not, she was still half asleep beneath the covers. He'd kissed her cheek and she hadn't even stirred herself to say goodbye – to say she loved him – to hold onto him and beg him not to go into work that day. She'd simply let him walk out the door. And now he'd been unconscious for two days and the healers couldn't tell her why. She swore if one more of them used the phrase "no way of knowing" again, she'd tear this place to the ground. Because she needed to know. She _had_ to know why so she could find a way to fix it.

...

Apparently they'd taken his wand from him the day he'd been brought in, and they weren't likely to give it back now that he'd outlined the ways he would torture the Creighton witch. What did they expect of him? What did he have left but punishing the woman who had taken everything from him? Her revenge was perfect and complete. It had been fulfilled in every particular.

They'd left him alone with the letters and each one had torn him apart. He wept as he read her descent into alcoholism; he'd barely kept himself from ripping up the letters about Ron. He read until every part of him felt raw and the ache in his chest had engulfed him. And here it was. The letter that had freed him. Freed… and destroyed completely.

One by one throughout the war, the people he loved had been mercilessly stripped from him. Now she had been taken just as surely as the others.

He read the letters again and again. He watched as the dates on them stretched apart, leaving great gaps in the correspondence. He had clenched each bit of parchment, his soul feeling every bit as splintered and torn as hers had. Every letter shattered him anew.

" _Do you remember me? I once meant everything to you."_

Yes, he thought, shuddering with fury and anguish. I remember the way you feel in my arms when you're laughing. I remember how you like your tea and which socks were your favorite and to leave the door open when it rains. I remember the way you say my name when you're angry and how you feel against me first thing in the morning. I remember. And it's too fucking late.

The healers didn't know what to do. They'd asked him to stay for testing until his condition could be declared stable. He had agreed, but only because he had nowhere else to go. The only homes he'd known were the manor, the headquarters, and her. He had none of those now.

...

She still had hard days. Extremely hard days. But she liked to think it was getting better. She meant what she had written in that last letter to Draco. She might never stop loving him, but she had to move on with her life. She had to _try_.

Some days she made it through with friends. Harry and Ginny, Luna and Neville, even her former acquisitions team members had all been there. She wished she had turned to them all sooner.

Some days she made it through with work. Her legislation was up for a vote in two weeks, and she'd been lobbying hard. She was so proud of the things her tiny department was accomplishing day after day.

Some days she made it through with her scruffy cat. She'd bribed him with cream and tuna and everything else she could think of until the grey furball had stayed, even on the sunniest days. She needed to name him, but all that came to mind was the feeling of him staying with her through the rain.

...

He hadn't seen Hermione – hadn't owled her. In fact, he'd forbidden the healers from telling her of his recovery. She'd made her choice. It was two weeks before they released him. During that time, he'd found that Bridget Creighton had jumped to her death the same day he'd arrived in St. Mungo's. Somehow, her suicide had twisted the knife that much deeper. He couldn't even fall back onto his vengeance. She'd truly taken everything from him.

He felt numb walking out of St. Mungo's. For hours, he simply roamed the streets of London. In time, he found himself back in Diagon Alley standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron. There were worse places to start over, he decided.

The first night in that borrowed room, in what felt like a borrowed life, he was afraid to fall asleep. He'd been considered stable for two weeks, but leaving St. Mungo's had made the fear return. He'd ended up crouched in a corner, clutching his wand as he waited for the sunrise.

She turned up three days later. He should have known she'd find him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked coldly.

She didn't answer him. She just stared, her eyes searching his.

"It's you," she said at last, her voice filled with too many emotions to count.

"It's me," he responded, his voice flat.

"How?" she pleaded. "How are you better?"

He laughed mirthlessly.

"Your letter. The moment you wrote the words 'I don't love you' I was free of it."

"But that's not what I–"

"It was close enough. All I needed were the words in that order."

"Why?"

"Bridget Creighton," he said, bitterly. And he could tell from the way her face fell that he didn't need to say more.

"Gods, Draco. What if I'd written it sooner? What if I'd said–"

"Does it matter? You said it exactly when she hoped you would: when it was too late."

"Too late?" she asked.

He looked at her darkly.

"Draco–" she said, crestfallen.

"I think you should leave, Hermione. You need to give me space to move on the way you have."

She didn't speak. She just stood there, looking like everything he'd ever wanted. It was more than he could take. He could feel his breath stuttering as he fought back angry tears.

"You need to leave. It's too – I don't want you here," he struggled, fighting for composure.

Something seemed to break inside of her. She collapsed in on herself, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. He needed her to go, but he also needed this. He needed to see the pain etched into every bit of her – to know that she was hurting as much as him.

It seemed like hours had passed before she looked up at him again, and tried to close the distance between them. He backed away, shaking his head until he'd reached the same corner he'd been in every night since leaving St. Mungo's.

"Get out," he choked, sliding down the wall until he sat with his knees pulled against his chest. He was surprised to find his face wet with tears, but made no move to wipe them away. She moved closer still, and he could hear his breathing turn ragged as sobs fought to escape his throat.

"Stop," he said through clenched teeth, but she wouldn't fucking listen. She was beside him now, sliding down the same wall and drawing up her knees like he had. He could hear every shuddering breath she took, could see the tears that had made their way beneath the collar of her shirt.

"Goddamn it, Hermione!" he sobbed, brokenly, "Get the hell out of here! Go let Weasley put his fucking hands on you! Go live your amazing fucking life and don't bother looking back. Get the fuck out of here!"

She began to sob quietly, her face in her hands.

"Please," he said, his voice hoarse with anguish. "I want you to go."

"I know," she wept.

 _..._

 _Dear Rose,_

 _Your mother's sent along some cakes for you to take to tea at Hagrid's. She says you should try to eat at least one of his to be polite, but I say just hide it in your robes when he's not looking._

 _If those nitwits in Ravenclaw have stopped inviting you to their club, they're obviously much stupider than any Ravenclaw has a right to be. You should have been in Slytherin like me. No matter. You're the cleverest, kindest witch I know and they clearly don't deserve to have your friendship._

 _Your mother says I shouldn't tell you anyone is stupid, especially other students. But some are._

 _They probably all have warts on their backsides, and I'd be happy to come down and turn them into the toads they were meant to be. Soon, some very un-toad-like friends will come your way and everything will seem much brighter than it does now. You'll see._

 _Your mother says not to tell you that other people have warts and not to threaten students. But some do. And I'm still considering it._

 _I'm sorry that people are cruel and that sometimes in life, you feel all alone. Just remember that you have a family that loves you more than we love sweets, which is quite a lot._

 _Your mother says I've misrepresented most of what she's said so she's writing you another letter now._

 _Chin up, love. See you in a few weeks._

 _~Dad_

...

Since the news of his recovery hit the streets, he hadn't had a moment of peace. He wasn't sure how they'd found his new apartment – it was fucking unplottable – but that hadn't stopped them coming. Well-wishers. Former friends and acquaintances. Even fucking Potter. They thought they were helping. He couldn't begin to imagine how. All he knew was that he had too many fucking casseroles crammed into his fridge and more notes and flowers than he'd probably ever got in St. Mungo's. At least he'd been able to scare them off after the first or second visit with sheer unpleasantness. _Most_ of them.

The thing is, Luna Longbottom wasn't most people. She wasn't capable of taking a fucking hint. She still comes relentlessly twice a week bearing some inedible concoction for him and occasionally (to their mutual horror) drags Longbottom with her. He can't work out why she bothers. During the war, they'd been on the acquisitions teams and saved each other's necks a few times, but they'd never been friendly per se. Their personalities had worked well on some level, he supposes: his rudeness matched by her blunt, uncomfortable way of speaking. He remembered the day she had asked him plainly if he was in love with Hermione – _while she was still with Weasley_. He'd told her something about where she could put her nargles and crumple-horned whatever-the-fuck-they-weres. She'd smiled serenely at him and continued sorting through the books they'd managed to scavenge that day.

She was asking the same damn question now. She had the same damn smile on her face.

He had the same angry scowl on his.

"Does it matter?"

"You mean because she slept with Ron Weasley," she said nodding vaguely and sipping her tea. "She regrets that, I think."

"Doesn't fucking change it," he said bitterly.

"Mmm, no," she said staring past him, "I suppose not."

He stared at the woodgrain of the bare tabletop, wondering when Lovego– fuck… _Longbottom_ would decide she'd had enough venom and leave him alone.

"How long should she have waited?"

"What?"

"How long should she have waited to move on?"

He glared at her.

"You weren't Draco Malfoy. You were no one. No matter what anyone tried."

"That's not–"

"She mourned for 15 months."

"I know. I've read the fucking letters," he snapped.

"How long should she have waited?"

She asked it without judgment, showing genuine curiosity.

He looked away from her, unable to say aloud the _forever_ that was on his lips. She saw it anyway.

"That would be a very hard life."

"It shouldn't be hard to stay faithful to someone you fucking love," he spat.

"Hm," she said, noncommittally, sipping from her steaming mug. "Perhaps not if they love you back."

He shifted uncomfortably, remembering her letters. How many times had she begged him to love her again? Toward the end, she'd written that he'd gone somewhere she couldn't follow.

"It would be quite lonely if they didn't."


	5. Chapter 5

_Dear Rose,_

 _Not having older bothers or sisters to get you things from Hogsmeade is far from the worst thing that's ever happened to you. Dad and I were both only children and I think we've turned out quite well. I might feel slightly worse for you if Dad hadn't told you about a certain ticklish pear near Hufflepuff. I'm sure Kreacher and Dobby are spoiling you rotten with extras from the kitchens. Be sure to compliment them on everything – it's the only payment they allowed for in their new contracts (although Dobby is still rather fond of hideous socks)._

 _I'm glad you've found a good friend in Elladora. Your father said to make sure she doesn't have warts, but he's being ridiculous. Perhaps we can arrange with Mr. and Mrs. Killick for you two to meet up over the Christmas holiday._

 _Speaking of the holidays, we can't wait for yours! It's still a month away, but I've got all the things we need for gingerbread and pumpkin cake. I've even stocked up on hot chocolate and marshmallows. Your father has been laughing at me for being over-prepared, but he's just as excited as I am. He won't admit it, but he's going mad without his favorite Quidditch partner. He even asked **me** to come out with him on your broom. What could he be thinking?_

 _I hope you've begun studying for exams – don't let them sneak up on you!_

 _All my love,  
~Mum_

 _..._

She startles when she sees him sitting against her door. He looks hollow – like he hasn't slept well in weeks. How many things had she shared in those letters that must have shattered him? How can he look at her now without seeing Ron?

Wordlessly he stands as she unlocks the door. He follows her into the deafening silence, and neither of them know what to do next.

"You got it to stay," he says finally, looking down at the cat.

"I did," she says, bending to lift the tangled mass of fur into her arms. She can't look at him. The silence stretches on between them until the cat squirms away from her, forcing their eyes to meet.

"I don't know what happens next Hermione." His voice is rough. "I don't know how to move past it."

His eyes search hers, and she wants to pretend she doesn't know what answers he's looking for. He's waiting for her to speak.

"You were gone. It was so fast, Draco. You kissed me that morning. We'd made love the night before. And then you were gone. I spent so long fighting the healers. Fighting our friends. I fought everyone who said you were a lost cause – who said I had to let you go. I fought to find a way to heal you. I fought back every demon I'd let in. I was so tired of fighting."

"And the answer was fucking another man?" he asks with much more bite than he'd intended.

She closes her eyes, shoulders slumping.

"He didn't fight. He was there, and he remembered me, and he never asked me to give you up or to stop drinking. He never asked me to love him back."

"Did you?"

"I wanted to. I thought it could make the hurting stop."

Something flares inside of him at her admission. Something primal and angry that screams _no – you are mine_. He takes a step closer to her and she mirrors him. Perhaps she sees the flicker of it in his eyes. Something old and familiar and powerful enough to draw her in. She's in front of him. Her hand rises slowly to his chest and their foreheads and noses brush. She waits. He wants so badly to let things drift back to what they used to be. He wants to see if she still shivers against his touch and if it's _his_ name she'll cry out as he takes her. But his thoughts are ripping him apart. Nothing he can come up with will fix this. He lets go, his hands scrubbing across his face.

"I can't do this, Hermione. Your letters – they came for over a year. You had over a year to work through it all. I woke up to all of that a month ago. How the fuck do you expect me to deal with it?"

"Work through it? You think I've worked through it? I _survived_ it, Draco. Not gracefully. Not with any shred of fucking dignity."

He looks up at the slip of language. She never curses.

"I dragged myself through every inch of mud along the way. So you don't get to act you act like the only one whose heart was broken. A part of me died every time I watched you stare past me. Day after day after day, my hope of you was shattered. I thought of taking my own life. I thought of taking yours. And yes, I fucking thought of sleeping with Ron just to _feel_ something that didn't hurt. Just one moment out of months and months of pain."

She closes her eyes shaking her head bitterly.

"And it hurt more than anything else."

He sits down next to her, just as defeated.

"Is there any part of me… any part of _us_ that doesn't still hurt?" she asks. "Is there any way we can still make each other's lives better?"

"I don't know. Everything in me is screaming to get out – to just get up and walk away. But I can't. Why can't I walk away?" he asks, frustration lacing every word.

"I've never been able to," she says.

...

The war is over. The Ministry is theirs.

It feels like less of a victory than it should, he thinks. He's almost penniless. There are restitutions to be paid. There's the substantial amount that Voldemort and his followers spent to maintain themselves for the past four years. The mansion, his family's land, his father's business holdings. All gone. In one way, it's freeing. He'll never have to touch anything that was touched by Voldemort again. But then, he'll never get to touch anything of his parents. It all got wrapped up together so tightly. The terror side by side with the way his mother smelled when she kissed him goodnight. The blood mixed up with the hard glint in his father's eyes when he volunteered himself as a murderer to keep his son's soul intact.

It's been years since he had to think of them – _really_ think of them. And now here's the department of what-the-fuck-ever asking him if there are any personal effects he wants from his family's home before it's decommissioned. _Decommissioned_. What a word.

In the end, she does it for him. He's too numb to think of what the pieces mean to him. A brooch. A scarf. A quill. Half a dozen books. Someday, he'll look at them and connect them to his parents and his childhood. Not today.

They'll be decommissioning the headquarters soon too. Potter's tried to keep it open long enough for everyone to find a place to live, but just like everything connected to this war, it's end has come. He wonders what else will end. She's all he has left that doesn't hurt. He doesn't ever want that to end.

...

They find all the places that are raw. Bruised. They move around each other carefully, hoping to avoid the things that can pierce them. They don't touch each other in all the ways they used to. It's different. _They're_ different. Not whole, but not completely broken. They meet in bright public places, where they can't afford to let the cracks show.

Mundane helps. Routine helps. Time helps. They don't mention the past. Not ever. It's not a solution, but it's a way forward.

December brings torrents of rain. When the short lease is up on his meager flat, he moves back in with her. It's more depressing than he thought - sharing an apartment but not a bedroom. He wants to kick down the doors that separate them. He wants to scream at her until there's no blame left to lay. He wants a single hint of the old snap and wit and banter they used to share. She looks terrified every time he tries to rile her, afraid to say something wrong. Bland is safer.

It's not that they can't argue. Little arguments spring up. About little things. Where the shoes go. Why the big spoons can't mix with the small ones. How she still flosses even though there's a spell for it. But it's all wrong. It's soft and sweet with no room for _them_. He's burning inside. He resents these eggshells they walk on. He resents this forward motion that keeps them trapped apart somehow.

He doesn't know how bad it's gotten until he finds the things she saved for him. The brooch his mother wore, even though it was it was _his_ favorite color, not hers. A misguided, gaudy birthday gift that she treasured all the same. The quill his father used. Jet black and severe. He hated that no one would ever know how many school letters it had penned. How many times had that cruel-looking quill written the word _love_? His scarf from Hogwarts. Books that had been passed down through the generations of his family.

They pull at something inside of him – some thread that begins to unravel every carefully constructed façade. He wants her to say something wrong. He wants to be stubborn and angry. He wants their past because it's painful, but it's beautiful too. He'll be damned if keeping the cracks hidden means keeping things the way they are.

He tries fighting. He tries arguing. He tries yelling. But she seems to fold in on herself – smaller and smaller each time – every fold another apology. He realizes that what he wants isn't an apology. He's past needing one. What he wants is _her_.

He looks into her eyes and curses himself for the time they've wasted. Six months have passed them by. Six fucking months of losing each other so slowly that he almost hasn't seen it.

He knows he has to break the routine. When routines are broken, anything is possible.

So he kisses her. Not the soft, bland kisses that have kept them safe. His lips crash down onto hers.

She's shocked.

He pushes her roughly against the wall and pins her there, his hips against hers. He lets her see the want. Her eyes are full of questions he can't answer right now. Instead he scrapes his teeth along the slender column of her neck, biting where it meets her collarbone. She sucks in a harsh breath and her nails dig painfully into his shoulders. He's done with being gentle, and suddenly… _finally_ … she is too. He can feel the need coming off of her in hot, sharp waves. He raises his head to kiss her again, but she catches his bottom lip between her teeth. The line between pain and pleasure burns as she grinds herself against him while raking her fingernails down his chest. Her hands are fumbling with the front of his trousers and his only conscious thought is _fuck_ _yes_. He yanks down the front of her shirt, his fingers dragging down her bra with it before his mouth covers her breast. She cries out and it feeds some long-starved part of his soul. More fumbling and his cock springs free. He wastes no time, thrusting against her even though she's still fully clothed. His tip slides against the skin of her stomach. Something about the contact makes her frantic. She's sucking and licking a trail of fire down his neck as she reaches down to grasp him. He can't help pumping into her fist as he yanks down her pants. Everything stops for just a moment as their eyes meet. She steps out of the clothes around her ankles and he lets his hands glide over the swell of her ass before grabbing the backs of her thighs. His lips find hers as he lifts her and feels her legs lock around him. He's pressed against her silken heat and slides against her wetness a few times before she makes an impatient noise and guides him to her entrance. His breath is harsh and uneven as he sinks into her. She's so tight around him, her heat soaking through every cell. It's been _months_ of jerking off to the smell of her shampoo. _Months_ trying to keep himself carefully in check. He feels her moan against his lips and, like a worn rubber band, the control snaps. His hips slam into hers as he gives in. It's not gentle. It's not tender. No more than mere fucking, but somehow it's still everything. He can feel her start to come apart in his arms, her walls clenching around him, and he can't hold on anymore. He buries himself inside her once, twice. Then he cries out as every nerve contracts and he empties himself inside of her.

They're breathing hard, muscles shaking. He can't hold her up much longer. The bed is just through the door. The bed he hasn't slept in for two years. The room they haven't dared enter together since the attack. Gathering the last of his strength, he carries her through the door.


	6. Chapter 6

"House elves are one thing. You're talking about giants, Hermione. They don't need our fucking protection!"

"That's the sort of thinking that has gotten them to this point to begin with."

"What point? A contained threat?"

"Precisely! They're giants, Draco. We simply can't contain them in such a small area!"

"I wouldn't call 500 square miles a small–"

"But it is to them! Hardly enough for each male to set out his own territory!"

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. He had stood by her through house elves and leprechauns, bowtruckles and pixies. He was secretly relieved that her push to protect gnomes had failed. He couldn't imagine being besieged by howlers from every gardener in wizarding Britain. As it was, the odd packet of dragon dung still found its way to their doorstep. The most worrisome were the threatening letters she'd received after outlawing the trade of imps and kappas for underground fighting. She'd simply shrugged them off, saying that some things were worth fighting for. And that was her real magic. Bringing the plight of these creatures from near and far to light. He admired her tenacity. He loved her passion. But really, giants were too much to ask of him.

"Your department is called _Minor Magical Creatures_ , Hermione. Giants are in no way _minor_ creatures."

"I've already voiced my objections to that name, and you know it! If they'd simply gone with _underrepresented_ like I proposed–"

"Love. Everyone will fight you on this one," he said quietly. "Not just a few angry traders from back alleys. Everyone."

She looked at him levelly.

"I know."

…

"Minister Canter, you can't avoid me forever," she said angrily as she followed him through the closing grates of an elevator.

He heaved a sigh of long-suffering, not turning to face her.

"Ms. Granger, I am happy to speak with you regarding any number of magical creatures, but you know as well as I that I cannot been seen discussing the giant land grant with you. If you wish to commit political suicide, I will thank you not to drag me with you."

When she didn't answer, he finally glanced in her direction and started. Her knuckles were white from gripping the rail and her glassy eyes were staring past him.

"Ms. Granger? Are you alright? Ms. Granger!"

The color drained from her completely as she slid to the floor.

…

She was in one of these fucking rooms waking up alone because they wouldn't let him through. Never mind that the wizardazzi had exhaustively documented their reunion and the past two years of their relationship. In a nod to customs as old as blood prejudice, St. Mungo's required a legal familial connection. Hermione was not his wife. As far as they were concerned, it was as simple as that.

"I don't give a damn what you require! She IS my fucking family!" he shouted at the mediwitch behind the desk.

"Sir, please! You'll upset the other patients. If you wish to return during visiting hours tomorrow, you are welcome to."

"We live together, for fuck's sake! I shouldn't need permission to see her!"

"Lower your voice or I'll have you removed, Mr. Malfoy! The last thing Ms. Granger needs in her increased condition is the stress of someone shouting."

"Her increased…?" he trailed off, wide-eyed.

The mediwitch paled suddenly and raised a hand to cover her mouth.

She had certainly succeeded in silencing him.

…

They'd told him. Accidentally. In a way, she was relieved. The future was always discussed in broad, vague terms, only extending as far out as the next vote or the next dinner party or the next deadline at the office. Now a part of him would be tied to her forever, whether he wanted it or not. And that was the worst part. She'd never know. His sense of duty and honor would see to everything from now on.

She looked up when the door burst open. The way he held onto her was something she hadn't known she needed. It was the shelter she'd been looking for in this perfect storm. She breathed him in, trying to brace herself. She was still so off balance from the news that what he'd asked next sent her reeling. He whispered it, holding her close, sounding so unsure of his right to ask. And she'd done the worst thing. She'd hesitated. He looked at her, his eyes a hundred different shades of anxiety.

"No," she said softly. "I don't want you to ask just because I'm pregnant."

"That's good," he said seriously. "Because that's the smallest part of why I'm asking."

The doubt must have shown on her face, and he continued.

"I mean it, Hermione. I want longer with you than just the lease on the flat. I want more than fucking visiting hours. I'm all in. I always have been with you. I'm all in for the rest of my life."

The tears came easily now. All she could manage was a tremulous smile and a nod.

…

She'd always told herself she'd fight like hell for every voiceless being in her department. And she had. Time and again, she had pulled back the grimy curtain that separated them from the rest of the wizarding world. But her fight for the giants was over. Now she was fighting for this pregnancy. She was glad they'd performed the simple, heartfelt ceremony so soon after her initial release. She'd been in and out of St. Mungo's four times since then with worrying symptoms. High-risk, she'd been called. The healers had gone so far as to express surprise that she'd conceived at all.

Strict bedrest was just a very gentle form of torture. She had to stay quiet and calm as she watched her land grant fail. She had to watch without anger or undue stress as the minister of magic failed to appoint an interim head to her already understaffed department. She had to watch Draco's frustration as he fought off her department's closure in her absence.

She marveled at him working so hard to keep her little dream going. She rather suspected it was penance for his relief. He had held her when the land grant was rejected, carefully silent in his consolation. She supposed she couldn't blame him for wanting his family safe. The sort of threats she'd received since the campaign began were nothing to the black market merchants she'd stared down before. They'd threatened to set giants loose in crowded muggle cities. They'd threatened to skin the politicians who helped her. They'd threatened to torture her continuously for months, never quite killing her. He'd read through each letter, his face grim, as she set out to speak to different politicians. He'd barely restrained himself _then_. Now, she was carrying his child. So she didn't begrudge him holding her close every night, his hand resting protectively on her growing belly, because he left every morning ready to fight the fights she couldn't. He put in long hours, keeping his own company running smoothly while calling in favors and pulling his influence when needed. Her department stayed open.

…

 _Dear Rose,_

 _Happy Birthday, love. I know you're tired of hearing it after all these years, but it's tradition by now so here goes. The morning you were born was the most beautiful morning I'd ever seen. I remember because Mum had been in labor through most of the night. The healers were so worried. They tried not to show it, but I could tell. Just before sunrise, I almost lost you both. I still remember how terrified I was. How helpless I felt. But then I heard you cry, and it was like you had called out the sun. The sunrise lit up everything in the room. The healers said Mum would be just fine and that you were strong and healthy, and everything in my whole world was suddenly perfect. I held onto you both and I knew that everything had changed for the better._ _Growing up, I always believed I was destined for great things – great adventures and great triumphs. I was right. You are a greater triumph than I ever could have imagined._

 _I know you're only still reading to see what present I've promised, but that's alright. You'll just have to read one more time that I love you very much. I couldn't send the broomstick you've been after (because first years aren't allowed to have them unless they have ridiculous scars in prominent places), but it's waiting for you at home. I even promise not to give it a test run without you. That's quite a sacrifice seeing as the summer holidays are still a month away! Can't wait to see you._

 _Love,_

 _Dad_


End file.
